I don’t know what I expected when I pushed open the Blue Chair’s battered door that morning. Maybe a plate heaped with pancakes. Maybe the comfort of old routines. But not this.

The look on the server’s face said it first — sincere, a little shocked, and touched by some quiet sorrow. He hesitated, the pause hanging in the air between us, heavy as goodbye.

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“I’m sorry,” he began, careful and slow. “We don’t have pancakes on the menu anymore.”

My jaw dropped — emptied of words, emptied of appetite. Simple as that. For years now, I’d only come for one thing. For pancakes — my all-time morning meal. Only ever needed the brunch menu for that. Never once strayed.

Losing the Blue Chair pancakes — those-oh-so-fluffy rounds, made with yogurt, berry-studded just enough for a surprise kiss of fruit, drowned in syrup sweet as first love — hit me. They were the best I’d tasted. Next to Mom’s, of course. No contest. The server said nobody ordered pancakes anymore. Too much batter was wasted in the back. Nobody thought to call me.

So I took a breath and chose a three-cheese omelette — can’t complain, it was pretty good. And then Sylvia Shank, the owner, drifted over. Her steps were gentle but they carried hard news. I heard it, but I already knew.

The Blue Chair was closing. Not for a week. Not for the season. For good.

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I’d known something was off. Chairs pushed tight together. Empty tables at the morning hour. Too much hush in a place meant for laughter. Maybe the signs had always been there.

Sylvia bought the place in 2020, from Harold Wollin, who opened it back in 2004. But since COVID crept into the world, everything feels rearranged. We stay home. We hide. The world outside feels less certain. Easier — safer — to order in, slip into pyjamas and pour coffee at your own table.

I don’t know when it changed. I just know it did.

Restaurants have always leaned on alcohol to survive — the margins made sense. But now? A click and you see the numbers. Beer marked up double, triple, four times over. Wine, too. Even your morning coffee is worth its weight in gold.

But fewer and fewer of us go for “one more.” Stats show Canadians have pulled back: alcohol sales slipping, beer on a nine-year slide, spirits down, wine faltering. The only bright spot? Ciders. Ready-to-drink coolers. Little victories for someone, not for the Blue Chair.

Money gets tight. Groceries cost more. Gas costs more. It all trickles down. Owners try to keep up, but prices move out of reach. The Blue Chair sits on a quirky stretch of 76 Avenue. Ritchie’s little main street. Quieter these days. Bike lanes coming soon — a gift and a goodbye. Less traffic, fewer hungry souls passing through. A quieter kitchen, its sizzle fading.

Still, the Blue Chair was always more than pancakes or pints. More than the plates warmed in the kitchen or the candles flickering on tables. Music lived there. Good, honest music.

Local bands squeezed onto a stage that was barely a stage at all, in the northeast corner. My musician friends still talk about it — how their eyes lit up when their set list put “Blue Chair” at the top. For some, it was a place to make a name. For others, a place to lose themselves in the music.

A neighbourhood restaurant is a special kind of ordinary magic. It’s a beacon. A home base for awkward first dates, second chances, anniversaries and just-because nights. It’s a place where glass meets glass, where the hum of conversation settles over you like a blanket.

I don’t know if I’ll ever find a place quite like it again. That blue chair by the window called me back, again and again. For pancakes, for stories, for something that felt a little like belonging.

My final brunch is set. Sunday, 12:30 p.m. Second table to the right of the bar. That’s always been my spot. I suspect it’ll be full — shoulder to shoulder, every regular returning for just one more meal, one more moment.

Maybe, just maybe, Sylvia will surprise me with pancakes. If not, I’ll take my cheese omelette, slow and grateful. And I’ll savour every forkful, letting the memory of those pancakes linger — one of the many small, unforgettable gifts from the Blue Chair.

Everything ends. But the warmth lasts — a quiet echo, reminding us all what it means to have a place in the world.

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